


'Tween Pavement and Stars

by hubblegleeflower



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brollylock Challenge, Crack, First attempt at smut, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mycroft and Mary - a new version of M-Theory, brollylock, number 87 in 101 things to do with a magic umbrella, oh and an umbrella used in anal penetration, perhaps worth a mention, please tell me if this is as funny as it felt when I was writing it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 06:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4168647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock decides revenge is called for, and sets out to steal Mycroft's umbrella. Firstly, because it will annoy him to no end, and also because he has some fairly fond memories of that brolly. The more John finds out about this second reason, the more intrigued he is about the whole project.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Tween Pavement and Stars

**Author's Note:**

> I happened to see a [Tumblr Challenge](http://cakepopsforeveryone.tumblr.com/post/121443958532/elizabeth-twist-as-a-result-of-this-little) and decided to join in. This is my first attempt at writing sex. Or Johnlock crack.  
> Be gentle!

“That's it,” Sherlock declared.  “This is the last straw, the final insult. This demands revenge.”

John, who didn't see that this particular insult was any graver than the countless hundreds that had gone before,  or the thousands that were surely to come, murmured something noncommittal and did not look up from his crossword puzzle.

“I mean it, John. I know precisely who he thinks he is, but he has to be stopped. For all our sakes.”

John smiled internally. Sherlock Holmes when he was being dramatic was always good for a show, so long as he didn't realise that he was the entertainment.

“I have to plan something. Something he'll never see coming.”

A pause. Perhaps a contribution from John was called for? "Well. Steal something. Pick his pocket. Perhaps he's got some more missile plans on a memory stick or something. That would annoy him."

Sherlock grinned a little at that, but then his smile froze and his eyes opened wide. "That's it, John! That's it!" He was poised now, head up, mouth open, eyes flicking left and right, unseeing.

"That's...what?" John finally looked up.

"We'll steal something that really matters to him, the loss of which would...would _break his heart_."

"Well, there's a fairly huge assumption inherent in _that_ statement, anyway," John said, still resolutely not getting worked up. "If you want to break it, you have to find it first."

"Oh, I won't have to find his shriveled heart, that would be a waste of all our time.  I will do better than that. I'll steal... _his umbrella_."

***

This was, by far, the stupidest thing they had ever undertaken, of that John had no doubt.  Although he lacked Sherlock's encyclopedic memory of all their exploits, he was quite certain that this was the most inadvisable, bar none.

On the surface, it appeared pretty innocuous; a visit to the Diogenes Club, what could be more civilised? But knowing what John knew about the combined clout of its members, surpassed only by the individual sphere of influence of the particular member they were there to rob, he was only too conscious of how thoroughly he could be made to disappear should this backfire spectacularly enough – and he was the first to admit that their backfires could be pretty spectacular. At least with their other misadventures, their aim had been at least partially noble. This time it was just ridiculous.

Far from suggesting they abort the mission, though, John grinned to himself and mounted the steps.

Their plan, as far as John understood it, depended upon the silence of the club members. Given that silence and general surliness was one of the main requirements for membership, they did not expect this to be a problem. They had had to wait for a rainy day, but that never proved too much of a challenge in London.

Now that it was wet, all they would have to do was gain access to the entryway and liberate Mycroft’s umbrella. He’d never even know they’d been there.

John had raised a sceptical eyebrow at this statement, when Sherlock had made it. “You think he won’t know?”

“Well, he won’t be sure,” Sherlock had amended. “Or… at least, he won’t be able to do anything about it after the fact.”

It seemed simple enough. The foyer was sheltered, and the door in from there was open during the day. Mycroft would keep his umbrella with him if it was dry, but on wet days all the brollies got left in the stand by the front door. After that door, any guests would be greeted and silently conducted to wherever they needed to go.

John’s job was to state their business as slowly and as loudly as possible, to ensure maximum irritation on the part of the attendant, as well as to give Sherlock as much time as possible to select the correct specimen. Given that he ought to be eminently familiar with the umbrella in question, the entire process was expected to be completed in a matter of seconds, at which stage John would make some excuse and they would abscond with their prize, leaving Mycroft to howl his impotent rage upon discovering its absence.

The plan went somewhat wrong about the moment they realised that the umbrella stand was further from the door than it had been on Sherlock’s last visit. It could still have been salvaged except that the first handle Sherlock picked up belonged to a brolly with some sort of shaping at the tip, which caught on a couple of its neighbours on the way up, unbalancing the stand and spilling umbrellas over the marble floor with a clatter.

Despite the exasperated disapproval of the disgruntled attendant, their plan might still have been successful, but for the fact that Sherlock’s phone dinged the arrival of a text message at that moment:

_I couldn’t be less interested in whatever your current crisis happens to be. Do go away, brother mine. MH._

Verbose, as usual. Mycroft hated having to text, and made up for it by making them as convoluted as possible. But the game was up if he knew they were there. Sherlock made a dejected noise, and they left. Back to square one.

***

Their next plan – which John didn’t even bother to pick apart, so riddled was it with holes – involved two members of the homeless network (each with a large black umbrella) and an odd sort of vaudevillian choreography. It required a busy, animated collision and dropped umbrellas, with chatter and solicitous brushing off of clothes and apologies and the careful handing back of the wrong umbrella.

Sherlock made them practice (with John as Mycroft) over and over again. After being repeatedly bumped and bruised in a variety of ways to find the best method for jostling the brolly out of Myrcroft’s deceptively casual grasp, John was feeling considerably less buoyant, but he let the plan go ahead – Sherlock was quite difficult to derail at this stage of proceedings.

Needless to say, it didn’t work. Tim sent Sherlock an apologetic text. His typos indicated that he’d written it with his non-dominant hand, so they sent a cab to bring him back to Baker Street for John to treat his sprained wrist.

As John wrapped the bandage, Tim fleshed out the details of their failure, culminating in passing on a message from Mycroft, which he’d been made to memorize: “Your pique is getting tedious. Get over it.” There was the implication that Mycroft would not be so understanding with future…emissaries.

Sherlock had the good grace to show some remorse for Tim’s injury, though Tim himself was cheerfully philosophical. A lesser sociopath might have given up at this point, but not Sherlock. His failure to date only made him more grimly determined.

***

“What _is_ it about this umbrella, anyway?”

John had always wondered. Late one night over drinks, he finally got around to asking. Now he was reclined in his seat, feet in socks, feeling relaxed. He liked to ask Sherlock questions when the detective was slightly tipsy and feeling voluble. He prepared himself to doze off while half-listening to his impossible voice. John let his eyes droop down.

Sherlock swilled his drink. “It’s his security blanket. He went away to study, did a sort of Grand Tour, and when he came back, his priggery was firmly established at a level we hadn’t guessed was possible, even given what a prat he was as a teenager, and the umbrella was only the most prominent of his pretentious affectations. He’s never been without it since.”

“What, the same umbrella, all this time?”

“As far as I can tell. He takes _very_ good care of it. And he’s very close-mouthed about where it came from – not that anyone bothered to ask much, but I’ve definitely seen him go very shifty about it. More so than Mycroft’s baseline, which I admit is a fairly high level of shiftiness. I would have pulled it to pieces several times over if I’d been able to get hold of it, for every patronising humiliation he’s offered me over the years. Just as well he guards it carefully.”

“Well, yes, but… it’s an _umbrella._ He can’t _sleep_ with it.” Speaking of sleep, it was possible coming up time to make a move bed-wards himself. If only he weren’t so comfortable…

“He doesn’t,” Sherlock stated, with a glimmer of satisfaction. Doesn’t what? Oh, sleep with his brolly.

Something in Sherlock’s tone made John stir. “There’s a story there.”

Sherlock looked at him sidelong, chewing his lower lip in an effort not to grin, but he soon gave up. “I did get hold of it once. I was livid with him – he’d found out about an – er – indiscretion of mine and let it slip to Mummy.”

“Indiscretion?” John couldn’t even begin to guess. Drugs, perhaps? Something related to crime? Perhaps he’d mentioned someone’s adultery to the wrong person at the wrong time? He couldn’t hope that Sherlock would tell him, Sherlock was very reserved about these -

“Blow jobs with the neighbour’s son in the arbour.”

_Okay. Not so reserved today. Right._

John was wide-awake now, that was certain, and rapidly re-evaluating a number of truths he’d thought were unassailable. He casually took another swallow from his drink, trying not to look as eager for details as he felt.

Sherlock continued, “Mummy was enraged – she hated that particular neighbour. I wasn’t that fussed about him myself but he never called me names, the skin on his cock was like satin, and he had practically no gag reflex.”

Unlike John, apparently, who was choking on his drink right about now. Sherlock took no notice. “Once Mummy knew, it became quite difficult for me to continue to be indiscreet with quite the frequency I would have liked. I was…most annoyed. And frustrated, of course. Good oral sex that far out in the country is not that easy to come by.”

 _So to speak,_ John thought, but did not say, because he was above such cheap innuendo. Instead he asked, because he couldn’t stop himself now, “So what did you do?”

Sherlock shrugged. “The only thing I _could_ do. I nicked his umbrella while he was sleeping, took it to my room, and gave myself the most explosive orgasm of my life with the tip of it shoved up my arse.”

After a moment John became aware that his mouth was open, and he closed it. He swallowed around the mental picture of a young, sulky Sherlock, completely debauched, writhing and shouting and _coming – coming – coming_ with the huge black umbrella hanging obscenely out of his arse. He shook himself. His mouth had fallen open again.

Sherlock seemed oblivious to his flatmate’s  discomfiture, smiling inwardly at the memory. “I never told him, of course. Not sure what he ever made of the leftover lube at the tip of it. Must have taken some cleaning. But I always knew, every time I looked at it, and it made me feel…better.”

John continued to completely fail to find anything relevant to say. Sherlock had gone all pensive, though, and didn’t seem to mind. “As much as I hate Mycroft, I’ve never been able to shake a certain…fondness for the umbrella. It will be nice to get my hands on it again.”

John climbed the stairs to his bedroom not long afterwards, with a thoughtful expression and a somewhat insistent erection. He decided he was somewhat more invested in this project than he had been up to now.

***

The next plan required that they wait until the next time Mycroft sent one of his darkly sinister cars to whisk them away to wherever it suited him that they should be, which happened at least as often as rain in London, though unfortunately not often on the same days, and required very little actual waiting.

Sherlock was alone when the opportunity arose, and he returned to Baker Street looking disheveled and frustrated and conspicuously empty-handed. He flatly refused to answer any questions about what had gone wrong, and he stewed in a black mood for the next two days.

***

Their opportunity came in a most unexpected way. Mycroft and Greg Lestrade had successfully completed some sort of venture together – details were not forthcoming – and had invited a few friends to Mycroft’s house for some celebratory cocktails.

There were a number of items in this equation (friends? Mycroft? And _Greg?_ ) which gave John pause, and he squinted at Greg for several seconds longer than was quite normal when he issued the invitation. _This must be what Sherlock’s blue-screen brain feels like._

“To Mycroft’s.” He felt he’d better check.

“Yeah.” Greg’s eyes flickered a little, and the tips of his ears reddened. John wondered if he was imagining things.

“To his actual house.” A seemingly minor piece of information, but he was having trouble turning it the right way to get it to fit into his brain.

“Yeah.”

Nope, not his imagination. Greg’s ears were definitely red. John stared at him a moment longer, and Greg began to look distinctly uncomfortable.

“Look,” he said. “I didn’t expect him to say yes, all right? We’d finished the job, and were feeling good, and I said something stupid, like, cheers, mate! Drinks at your place! And he just stared at me for a minute and then said fine, close friends only, how about Friday.”

John was still staring. Greg looked away. Despite his discomfort, Greg was trying to hide grin that looked like it was going to be quite goofy, and a couple of ideas clicked into place in John’s mind. After another moment, he shrugged, nodded once, and said he’d be there. “And probably Sherlock, too, provided that’s a day when he’s agreed to put on pants. Thanks for the invite, mate.”

Then he went to find Sherlock and tell him that the next time they tried, they were going to use _John’s_ plan for a change.

***

They didn’t even have to run, in the end. John nipped to the loo, and on the way back to where the guests were gathered, he detoured by the front door, took the umbrella out of its stand and leaned it against the wall by the outside step.

He felt a twinge of guilt, as they were there by invitation and he was actually having a good time, but he glanced at the tip of the brolly, leaning innocently on the step, and his eyes darkened – with resolve, and something else as well.

By the time he rejoined the others, he had his expression back under control (he thought), and they stayed another hour before saying their farewells and heading home. John waited for the door to click shut behind them, and reached down nonchalantly to grasp the handle where it leaned against the wall. They nodded to one another solemnly, then strolled down to the main road to find a cab home.

***

By the time they got out of the cab, their giddiness had caught up with them and they were giggling like it was a crime scene. John held the umbrella by the handle and began to walk up the pavement.

He was trying for an impression of Mycroft looking uptight, but it wasn’t going quite right. The overall effect was somewhere between Charlie Chaplin and Dick Van Dyke in the film where he danced with the penguins and _why the hell do I remember these things,_ John thought, not even sure he’d even  _seen_ that film. Oh, wait, yes he had. Why on earth was he thinking of it now?

No matter, though, as he could hear Sherlock chuckling away behind him, which was the whole of his intent anyway. He executed a twirl, and then tossed the brolly to his friend. Sherlock deftly snatched it out of the air, then whirled and faced John like a fencer, flourishing the umbrella and raising his free arm gracefully behind him.

John ducked, dodged, and spun, so that he ended up inside Sherlock's guard, his back flush against his friend, grasping his wrist and disarming him. Sherlock shouted and reached around him, trying to regain his weapon, but John angled his shoulders so that he couldn't quite reach, instead trapping both of the detective's wrists in his free hand and pulling his arms tighter around his shoulders.

He wondered at his own daring, but a couple of drinks, Sherlock's proximity, and the thought of where the umbrella in his hand had been (however long ago) combined to overcome his hesitations. Sherlock was pressed against his back and it felt bloody fantastic.

Not just to him, apparently. Sherlock had stopped laughing and was resting his chin on John's shoulder, breathing slightly faster than could be blamed on the speed of their walk. John leaned back a little, turned his face slightly, and let himself feel his friend's warm breath on his neck. He felt his arms tighten around him, felt Sherlock bring his body fractionally closer to his.

 _All right then_ , he said to himself, not even bothering to pretend this wasn't exactly where he wanted to be. He nuzzled Sherlock once with his cheek, then turned in his arms and kissed him.

At the first press of lips, both men drew in a long breath through their noses, letting it out again in tandem, in a long sigh. Sherlock’s breath tickled John’s face and he smiled into the kiss, snaking one hand up to cup the taller man’s jaw and wondering at how _right_ this felt, after wanting it for so long. Sherlock’s mouth on his was soft and inviting, and as he leaned into the kiss he felt Sherlock’s lips just part.

He could feel the warmth suffusing his whole body. The desire was strong, to claim Sherlock’s mouth and press their bodies together, only becoming stronger the longer he teased at the beautiful, pliant mouth that was gradually opening to him in the lamplight.

With a sigh, though, he drew away, his fingers trailing along Sherlock’s jaw and coming to rest at his chin, and was rewarded with the vision of Sherlock, eyes closed, lips parted, breathing little shaky breaths and trembling slightly under John’s touch. At the sight of him, he pressed upwards for another light kiss, watched Sherlock’s lashes flutter upwards, and smiled at him.

“That was every bit as nice as I imagined it would be.”

Sherlock blinked, opened and closed his mouth once or twice, then smiled. “Yes.” Sherlock held his eyes for another moment. “Why are we stopping, exactly?”

John smiled fondly at the look of eagerness on the face of the man in front of him. He wanted to kiss him again, oh my, yes, but with a warm glow he realised that there would be time for that, and more time. Instead, he cocked his head coyly, indicating that they should continue their stroll, and gallantly offered his arm to his friend, who smiled wryly and took it.

Then it was just a natural progression of the general happy silliness, or the desire to diffuse the intensity of the kiss (for now) that led to John lifting the umbrella he’d been using as a walking stick, and fumbling for the mechanism that would open it. Sherlock, unable not to get involved, placed his hand on the handle as well, just as John found the trick of it.

Both men later wondered what would have happened had both their hands not been on the handle the moment the spines extended and the black fabric unfurled above their heads. Because the next moment, they were clinging desperately to each other, and gripping the handle of the umbrella for dear life, as they were whisked from the pavement, high into the skies over London.

“Jesus shitting Christ on a merry-go-round." John watched the rooftops of London recede beneath his feet. “Mycroft is Mary fucking Poppins.”

***

It took them a few tries to work out how to direct their flight. They seemed to be held aloft by some force other than the lift of the umbrella itself, as they felt no strain or pull on the hands that were holding the handle. Lulled by this, Sherlock made to adjust his grip, briefly, and was only saved from plummeting to his death by the swift, firm grip of John’s arm around his waist.

“Jesus! Sherlock!”

He hastily grabbed the handle again and was immediately supported by whatever magic surrounded the umbrella.

They soon found that they could ride along quite comfortably, so long as they did not let go, merely by thinking of the direction in which they wished to travel. This was fine, when they shared the same inclinations, but Sherlock, true to form, sent them spinning away in all directions, _fastohgodohgodtoofast_ , rocketing up towards the stars as well as spiralling downwards towards the pavement, not actually whooping in his glee (a vestige of dignity apparently remained to him), but chortling manically as he went.

Soon, though, John collected his own thoughts and brought their odd conveyance under his sway, and Sherlock’s mad whims were no match for John’s steady control.

They drifted along, enjoying the view. Presently, Sherlock said, “Mary who?” as if several impossible minutes hadn’t passed since John’s first expletive upon leaving the ground.

John looked at him. “Poppins? Mary Poppins?” Then, remembering who he was speaking to, he explained. “It's a movie for kids about a magical nanny. She sings and does magic and gets about by brolly – just like us.”

“We don’t sing.”

“No. Or do magic. But apparently we travel by umbrella.”

“Hmph. So where can she go with it?”

Gazing around at the spectacle of London at night spread out at his feet, John tried to remember. Mary Poppins had been Harry’s favourite movie when they were very small, so he’d seen it several times, but not since he was a kid. “Up – chimneys, I think. And into chalk pavement pictures, though I’m not sure she used the umbrella for that. Also on rooftops – and oh, once they landed on a cloud.”

Sherlock was squinting at him incredulously. “John, clouds are made of – “

“Yes, Sherlock, I know what clouds are made of. I didn’t make the film.”

“You can’t _land_ on one. That would be scientifically impossible.”

“Yes, of course. Flying with a magic umbrella, on the other hand, is perfectly believable.”

“Well, we’re doing it.”

“Exactly. So I don’t think we’re in a position to be too picky about concepts like ‘possible’ and ‘impossible.’ We’re _flying,_ Sherlock.”

“So it seems. Although I had John Watson’s tongue in my mouth a few minutes ago, so I was pretty high already.”

“Sherlock, did you - ?” John hesitated, wondering why _this_ should be the most unbelievable thing about the evening. “Did you just say something _sweet?_ Were you – were you _flirting?”_

In answer, Sherlock placed his free arm around John’s waist and drew him closer, pale eyes gazing into blue. “Maybe. Anything seems to be possible.”

This time it was Sherlock who bent to kiss John, lightly at first, then more insistently, gentle forays of lip and tongue coaxing his mouth open and seeking admittance, which was freely granted. John could feel his body’s response ( _from_ kissing _, honestly, am I twenty-two?_ ), and with their bodies pressed together from chest to thigh, he could feel that Sherlock was every bit as enthusiastic.

They were constrained by the need to keep hold of the umbrella, but Sherlock reached down with his free hand and grasped John by the arse, drawing their hips together and grinding slowly against him. _Oh, god, that felt good._ John moaned into his mouth.

“All right?” Sherlock murmured.

“Yeah.” John huffed a laugh.  “Yeah. All…really fantastic.”

Before long they were leaning against each other for support, panting, as blown away by the contact of their mouths and bodies as they were by the fact that they were _flying over bloody London with a magic umbrella._ Despite the rising tide of arousal, though, neither man loosed his grip on the handle, and the one-handedness of their touching was beginning to seriously cramp their style.

“John. _John._ ” Sherlock breathed his name into his mouth, not quite managing to pull away from the meeting of their lips.

“Wha-?” His tongue was too busy to form the whole word.

“We need to – we need to land. I want to touch you.”

John paused a moment to reflect that Sherlock Holmes was choosing touching him over _flying_. And that he was considering allowing it. He wanted, no, he _needed_ to touch Sherlock, too. But dear god, he was not ready to land yet.

There must be some way around it – ah! “Over there, then.” And they veered off towards the river, angling slightly upwards. John was getting good at this.

“Mmph?” Sherlock asked, not quite as articulate as usual.

“A cloud. We’re going to try and land on it.” Because honestly, tonight, absolutely anything was possible.

***

A minute or two later, they were walking on a cloud. Metaphorically, certainly, but also quite, quite literally.

They knew – they both knew, even Sherlock hadn’t deleted it – that clouds were assemblages of water droplets and water vapour _completely lacking_ in the ability to hold aloft solid objects on a larger-than-particulate scale (such as, for example, two fully-grown adult males). They also knew they were standing on a cloud, and not falling.

And it wasn’t merely that the damp chill of a physical cloud had somehow taken on the density, the solidity necessary to keep them from falling, it was that this cloud had somehow ceased to be damp or chilly at all.

It was as if what educated adults had learned about clouds had suddenly been superceded by what any observant child knows to be true, namely that clouds are soft, and fluffy, and enormously comfortable to lie upon.

With John’s arm firmly gripping him around the waist, Sherlock took a breath and tentatively let go of the handle. Nothing happened. He eased himself out from under the canopy, still with John’s hand fisted into his coat as a precaution. Still nothing. He stepped away carefully and did not fall.

Encouraged, John lowered the open umbrella, easing his grip on the handle. The cloud seemed quite willing to take their weight. Finally, extricating his fingers from Sherlock’s coat, John reached up the shaft and slid the runner down, neatly folding the canopy.

The law of gravity continued to insist that this was not its division.

Both men looked at the furled umbrella, then at each other...and then proceeded to leap around the cloud’s surface like lunatics, giggling, whooping, and howling, because they were _on a fucking cloud._

“Does Mycroft do this?” John wondered aloud.

“What, enjoy himself? No. Leave him out of this.” Sherlock flung his arms out, whirling around the surface of the cloud like it was a crime scene. _The only thing missing from this,_ John decided, _is a dead body. A dead body on a magic cloud would be sure to beat a locked room, by anyone’s reckoning._ But Sherlock seemed satisfied enough without it. He finished his spin, filled his lungs...and then turned to meet John’s eyes.

John suddenly remembered why they had landed here in the first place. His childish buoyancy faded, to be replaced by something darker and more heated. He saw an answering promise in Sherlock’s eyes.

The two men stared for a moment longer, then both moved to close the distance between them. John stepped into the frame of Sherlock’s shoulders, Sherlock bent his head, and their mouths came together once again.

They took slow turns this time, Sherlock opening his mouth before John’s questing tongue, allowing him to explore and taste his fill, then John retreating and inviting Sherlock to his own discoveries. There was nothing about this that wasn’t extraordinary, standing on a cloud-become-solid, in the sky, and kissing Sherlock Holmes, and there was nothing about it that wasn’t completely _right_ and _perfect._ John gave himself over to the sensations, but he wanted more.

John’s hand’s were resting on his friend’s sides, inside his coat, the warmth of his skin radiating through the smooth fabric of his shirt. Without breaking the kiss, he slid his hands up Sherlock’s sides and over his chest, earning him a breathy sigh from the detective as he leaned into his touch. Flattening his palms, John circled his hands over Sherlock’s pectorals, enjoying the spare, lean lines of him. He could feel Sherlock’s nipples through his shirt, and brushed his thumbs over them, teasing them with the pressure from his hands and the caress of his silky shirt. Sherlock shivered under his touch, with a hitch in his breathing.

Closer, John needed  to be closer. He moved his fingers upwards again, under the shoulders of the Belstaff, lifting the heavy coat up and off, letting it slide down Sherlock’s arms to pool on the cloud at his feet. John did break the kiss now, and drew his head back, the better to see his friend.

Sherlock in a shirt was nothing new, shouldn’t affect him at all, but Sherlock in a shirt with his lips parted, panting a little from kissing, clearly wanting more, clearly wanting _John,_ well, that was something that could never get old.  John caught the heated scent of him, warm from the discarded coat, warm from kissing, and he pressed closer to the taller man’s body.

Sherlock dipped his head and caught John’s mouth with his, wrapping his arms around John and pulling him close, chest to chest and thigh to thigh. Once again the evidence of his arousal pressed into John’s hip; John shifted to get some pressure on his erection as well, and gasped at the sensation. Abandoning his measured approach, he gave a growl and ground his hips against Sherlock’s, bringing their cocks into alignment and giving a startled moan at the intensity of the feeling.

Sherlock, too, was eagerly seeking contact, his breath beginning to come in short gasps. He gripped John’s hips and John gripped his arse (God, how desperate he’d been to get his hands on it) and they stood upright, rutting against each other like teenagers and groaning into one another’s mouth.

 _Through two sets of pants and trousers,_ he managed to think. _This has no business feeling this good at my age._ But it did, and he did not want it to stop, and he wanted so much more.

Through the mash of tongues and teeth John fought for breath, for speech.  “Sherlock.”

Sherlock, kissing along his jaw and down the side of his throat, managed, “Yes, John?”

John’s head fell back, his neck bared for Sherlock’s mouth. “Ah-- I want… _oh_ … I – I – how  do you want this to go? What – _ahh –_ “ Sherlock found the hollow under John’s ear and was mouthing it wetly. It felt _amazing._ John was trying for ‘responsible’ but was heading swiftly into the area of ‘non-verbal’ instead. _Spit it out, Watson, while you still can._ “What do you want from me right now?”

If the sloppy sound of Sherlock’s mouth by his ear was hotter than it had any right to be, the rumble of his voice was infinitely more so. “You. All of you. Everything.”

 _“Fantastic.”_  Just the permission John needed to let his brain go slack and his body take over. John’s jacket was shed in short order, joining Sherlock’s coat at their feet, and somehow –with much fumbling – their shirts were unbuttoned and they were pressed bare torso to bare torso.

John wriggled his body for the slide of his skin across the smooth expanse of Sherlock’s chest, kissing across his pectorals as he did so. He tilted his head and brushed his lips over a pebbled nipple, reveling in the sharp intake of breath he heard as he did do. Another light brush, then the tip of his tongue, then his whole mouth as he sucked the tiny bead of flesh, drawing it in against his teeth. The hiss this elicited from Sherlock went straight to his cock.

To Sherlock’s too, apparently, as he arched into John’s mouth and canted his hips forward, seeking, seeking. John did not disappoint, bringing his hand down the man’s lean body and pressing it to the front of his trousers. Sherlock moaned at the contact.

”God, you’re gorgeous. You – god, the way you feel. Sherlock, I want, I want to see you. I want to see all of you.” He fumbled with belt and button, an impassable bastion of clothes and hardware barring him from the hot cock he could feel heavy against his hand. The process was not helped by Sherlock’s equally clumsy hands _(no that’s not right, he’s never clumsy)_ struggling with John’s clothes as well. He was about to push away, enough to tear off his own clothes, the faster to get back to the business at hand – then Sherlock’s hand pushed open his trousers and slid beneath the waistband of his pants, and his world stuttered.

“Jeeeeesuuus.” One brush, one long, slow pull from base to tip, and he was practically falling over. The firm pass of a thumb over the head of his penis and he was moaning as wantonly as Sherlock. His hands – so desperate a moment before for the merest touch of Sherlock’s cock – had fallen to his sides, and if Sherlock hadn’t passed his free arm around the small of John’s back, he would have staggered backwards. Still, the slow, steady touch, long fingers stroking over the soft skin of his testicles, then curling around the base of his (by now quite impressive) erection, being drawn slowlyslowlyslowly up his thickening length, and then the thumb, across the slick head, massaging a slow circle before the hand dropped down again –

“Sherlock. I can’t – I can’t stay standing for this.”

Sherlock palmed John’s cock once more, a promise, before loosening his hold and stepping away. Without breaking eye contact, he unbuttoned his cuffs and drew his open shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, letting it fall to the ground on top of his coat.

 _(No, not the ground, but to the surface of the CLOUD that they were LITERALLY about to have SEX on. J_ ohn thought it important not to lose sight of this, despite his current muddled state.)

Belts, trousers, shoes, socks – all were somehow discarded, and they stared at each other, naked against the backdrop of London’s night sky. The surface of the cloud under John’s bare feet was soft and fluffy, with no trace of the chill or damp he knew to be central to what clouds were.

“It’s puffy. We can lie down on it.”

Soon they were stretched out alongside one another on the surface of the cloud, the lengths of their bodies cradled in the cushiony, indescribably soft semi-magical substance, the heat of their skin. With no more finesse or patience, they fell upon each other, mouths, hands, legs, bodies, shifting and sliding, finding angles and rhythms, breathing _hot_ and moaning.

John could not get over the sounds Sherlock made when he touched and lipped and sucked him, and Sherlock could not seem to stop burying his face in John’s skin (hair, neck, belly, groin) and breathing in his scent.

John had his left hand wrapped around Sherlock’s very firm cock, and was starting to stroke, the firm strokes that made Sherlock gasp and thrust, when suddenly Sherlock covered John’s hand with his own and stared at him with dark, intense eyes.

“John. John, I need more of you. I need – “ he gasped again as John shifted his grip, but John took his meaning.

“Shh, yes, I know. Yes, we can. But sweetheart, we don’t have any lubricant. It could get uncomfortable.”

“Pocket! There’s – in my pocket.” As he spoke, Sherlock fumbled around him to find his coat, pulled it near and drew a large glass bottle from the pocket.

“Sherlock, what is that?”

“I saw it at Mycroft’s. I’ve seen it before. He acquired it about the same time as the umbrella.”

That was a long time for a bottle to stay more than half-full. “So you nicked it?”

“ _Borrowed_ it, John. Just long enough to find out what it is. I figured we ought to have the set.”

He twisted the cap off and sniffed at the contents, frowning. John smelled it too – then a thought struck him.

“In the film – no, listen, Sherlock – there was a bottle that looked just like this. It was medicine, but what it tasted like was different for every person – it was always their favourite.”

“So…you’re saying that if I hold the bottle and wish really hard for tiramisu flavoured lube, that’s what I’ll get?”

John wasn’t sure if that’s what he’d said, but it seemed worth a try. “Uh – yeah.”

Which was, perhaps at this stage unsurprisingly, exactly what they got.

***

Some minutes later, things took a surprising turn, which considering the many turns things had taken so far, was saying rather a lot.

Sherlock was stretched out on the cloud, legs spread wide around a kneeling John, who was busily working a second finger into Sherlock’s lovely pink arsehole, surrounded by the sweet smell of marscapone and coffee liqueur.

Their attention was firmly focused on the task at hand, so at first Sherlock didn’t notice the unobtrusive tap-tap-tap against his calf. When the discreet knocking gave way to a caress of fabric against the outside of his thigh, though, slippery cool and not at all unpleasant, he opened his eyes.

“Is that you, John?”

Oh, god, had he been away in his mind palace or something? “Um, is what me? The man with his fingers up your arse, rock hard and desperate to get inside you? Yes, that’s me. Why?”

“No – there’s something – “ Sherlock lifted himself up on his elbows and craned his neck to see.

There, resting completely inanimately against his leg, was the umbrella.

Both men regarded it thoughtfully.

Sherlock spoke slowly, considering. “It was tapping me a moment ago, John. It wanted to get my attention.” He paused. “Perhaps… perhaps it remembers me.” _Fondness,_ John remembered Sherlock saying.

Just then a ripple of wind meandered across the cloud, and rustled the folded black fabric. It continued to lie there, polite and, above all, undemanding. Nevertheless there was a certain air of hopefulness about it, or perhaps of invitation. It was difficult to say, as the umbrella itself had not moved or shifted at all, and anyway, how does an object without a face convey an emotion? But all the same, suddenly neither man was in any doubt as to what the brolly was hoping for.

They exchanged glances, and both men smiled slowly and lasciviously.

“After all,” said Sherlock, “It brought us all the way up here, and gave us a cloud to shag on.”

“Marvellously decent thing to do,” John agreed.

“It would be terribly rude to leave it out of proceedings, don’t you think?”

“Practically unforgivable.” And in the great scheme of the evening, John decided this made about as much sense as anything else, and that he was in no position to complain.

Which is how the umbrella came to be smeared generously in flavoured lube,  gripped in John’s left hand, just below the ferrule, and poised by his slick, ready opening.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Umbrellas absolutely cannot sigh, or otherwise express delight or pleasure, but this was a magic umbrella, and seemed to do precisely that. _This_ was where it wanted to be, _this_ was why they had been carried here.

John feasted his eyes on a writhing Sherlock, who was moaning before him, rocking his hips so that he could thrust his cock up into John’s fist, and then bring his arse back to seek deeper penetration from the umbrella. No, he didn’t mind sharing this with one unassuming magical umbrella. It would be miserly to object, when he himself was feeling so, so blessed.

Sherlock’s rhythm was starting to fray, turning erratic, frantic, and moments later he came with a shout, clenching around the cap and sending strings of semen  splattering against his belly.

John caressed him safely through his orgasm, then gently withdrew the umbrella and released his hold so he could begin to stroke his own nearly painful erection. Sherlock recovered enough to cover John’s hand with his, and wrapped his other arm around John’s shoulders and drew him down towards him. They kissed and kissed and kissed while they worked John’s cock together until his hips began to buck out of control and he had his own climax, quieter than Sherlock’s but no less effusive.

Afterwards, they discovered that cloudstuff could admirably do the job of a warm flannel, so they cleaned themselves off and lay curled together in their impossible nest in the sky.

They wiped the end of the umbrella as well, and Sherlock toyed with its handle as they lay there. John haboured only warm and generous feelings toward the brolly, and did not protest this division of Sherlock’s attention. He considered it only fair.

***

Much, much later, they donned their discarded clothes and reluctantly returned to earth, grasping the umbrella with a new respect, almost reverence, as they drifted downwards. Without any conscious direction from either passenger, they found themselves touching down lightly in front of the familiar black door of 221B.

Landing must have brought them back into the signal range for their mobiles, because no sooner had their feet connected with the pavement, than Sherlock’s mobile chimed a text signal. He pulled it out.

“It’s from Mycroft,” he said ruefully. “The game may be up.”

_You’ve made your point, brother. Childishly and bluntly as usual. M_

_I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. SH_

_Quite. Brother dear, I do still want it back, but this time clean it off first._

Sherlock barked out a laugh when he read this, and showed it to John, who giggled.

“Is that it? Is that all he’s going to say about it?”

“Let’s see.” Sherlock tapped out a new text.

_One thing, brother. Will you be good enough to explain all this? SH_

_Let me make one thing quite  clear, brother mine._

_Yes?_

There was a long moment, then the text chimed again.

 It was from Mycroft:

_I never explain anything._

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr [hubblegleeflower](http://hubblegleeflower.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also, I really, really, _really_ enjoy comments.


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